


maybe this is sad but true

by silky-fsf (SilkyinaBottle)



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Angst, Dark Comedy, F/F, Femslash February 2017, Grief/Mourning, Pre-Femslash, but it's probably a little closer to the movie's tone while using the musical's continuity, i tried to keep the tone in line with the movie/musical as much as i could
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 20:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9624800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilkyinaBottle/pseuds/silky-fsf
Summary: In the wake of Heather Chandler's death, Veronica and Heather have a bit of a heart-to-heart.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i'm still so behind............... but w/e i'm excited i got to write for heathers!!
> 
> title is from "mr. right" by rocket to the moon

On the day of Heather’s funeral, Veronica wears all black. Of course she does; it’s a  _ funeral,  _ for god’s sake. This fact is only worth mentioning for one reason and one reason alone: she only had one clean pair of black socks. The very same pair of socks she was wearing the day Heather Chandler died.

She had thrown all of her clothes into the wash and jumped into the shower the moment she got home that grisly night. Even if Heather’s death had been bloodless, she was still paranoid that there was somehow some kind of incriminating evidence she was carrying on her body. A drop of draino, a microscopic shard of glass, a strand of Heather’s hair, _something._ And hey, she _did_ go out partying, consume way too much alcohol, smoke weed, vomit on the floor and have sex in those clothes, so they were probably due for a wash either way.

But just look at where that line of reasoning got her. Sitting here in church, wedged between JD and a woman she thinks is one of Heather’s elementary school teachers, wearing a pair of socks she really should have tossed when she had the chance.

A flash of yellow catches her eye, if only because it’s the only burst of color in an otherwise all-black room (other than the gaudy red flowers adorning Heather Duke’s hat, but Veronica would rather ignore those). Heather Mcnamara is shifting back and forth in her seat, with an air of restlessness that Veronica has never seen from her.

Oh, fuck. That’s  _ her  _ fault, isn’t it? If she had never let this happen, Heather wouldn’t be sitting here staring at her best friend’s slowly rotting  _ corpse.  _ Shit.

Veronica feels one of her legs start to bounce, far beyond her control, and in moments she’s weighing the pros and cons of standing up and walking over to hug Heather in the middle of the service. She doesn’t, mostly because she doesn’t want to climb over JD to do so. Their thighs are pressed together from how close they’re sitting, and it makes Veronica nauseous in a way completely unlike the dumb teenage butterflies she got around him the day they met. She’d like to avoid touching more if at all possible.

So she waits until the service is over, waits until the preacher has stopped pretending he knew Heather, waits until everyone has had their chance to stand close to the queen bee’s lifeless body, waits until the crowd starts to scatter a little.  _ Then  _ she breaks off from JD, making some half-assed excuse about needing some air before following a familiar spot of bright yellow out the church doors. She only gets a few steps outside before Heather and Heather turn around at the sound of her hard-soled shoes smacking against the pavement. Heather looks surprised to see her acknowledging the two of them, while Heather just narrows her eyes in what Veronica is sure is disgust. “What the hell do you want, Veronica?” It seems even the death of the highest power in the high school food chain hasn’t erased what she’s done in her eyes.

“To talk,” Veronica mumbles uselessly, and Heather rolls her eyes.

“Heather, you deal with her,” she mutters, turning on her heel to navigate her way through the waxing and waning crowd of funeral-goers. “I’ll be with Kurt and Ram.”

_ Good riddance,  _ Veronica thinks, without a hint of regret.  _ And take your hat with you.  _ She turns back to Heather, and feels her heart drop when she sees the girl staring uncomfortably at her shoes, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. The look plastered across her face is more than enough to wash all traces of vindication and stubborn bitterness away from Veronica’s mind. For the first time since the incident, she is filled with nothing but pure, unadulterated guilt. “I… I’m sorry,” are the words that slip out of her mouth, and she finds she means them.

Heather pauses for a moment, her gaze flitting from her own shoes to Veronica’s. And for just a moment—a single, solitary moment—Veronica is terrified that somehow she  _ knows.  _ That maybe she heard the weakness in her voice, or… or saw something on her damn _ socks. _ It’s a kind of fear she hasn’t experienced since the moment Heather Chandler died at her feet, and it’s all that’s keeping her grounded to reality right now.

Because no matter how awful the Heathers were as a unit, Heather Mcnamara was always a sort of outlier. She was always a follower at best, latching onto the coattails of Heather and Heather and just letting herself get dragged along for the ride. The haughty remarks and scathing insults that sounded so natural out from the two of them just never quite felt right from her. Veronica can’t say she ever knew her well enough to really tell if that was because of some kind of genuine goodness or if it was just her airhead persona shining through, but she does know that she never,  _ ever  _ intended to hurt her. Not like this.

Heather’s gaze slowly moves upwards, trailing across the length of her body until the blonde finally comes to meet her eyes. “Don’t be sorry,” she says, her voice little more than a hoarse whisper. She takes a careful step forward, and Veronica can see a flash of yellow by the side of her face: Heather’s fingernails, still the same brilliant shade of canary yellow that had been just a week and a half before. Before all of this was ever something either of them had to worry about. Her fingertips graze against Veronica’s jawline, her touch featherlight as she speaks. “This isn’t your fault.”

Veronica wants to cry. She wishes she could, but she thinks she’s forgotten how.


End file.
